The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Nicole was a bit nervous as she parked her car outside Brad’s house. She didn’t know what was waiting for her inside. All she knew was that Brad had simply told her to come over.

In the past few weeks, he’d had her further humiliating herself— flashing her breasts at people, flashing her pussy— telling her to do these things to greater and greater amounts of witnesses, telling her to do these things for greater and greater amounts of time. Her humiliation was a constant, these days— she burned in shame from the time she woke up to the time she fell asleep.

But today, he had simply called her up that morning on the landline, and asked her to come by his house that evening. He hadn’t even told her to bring anything, or dress in any particular way. Just a quick, brusque invitation, and nothing more, no other info. He’d been the one to hang up first, not even giving her the chance to respond.

So when it had come time to leave, so she’d be arriving for the time that he said, Nicole had been left to make her own decisions.

She’d chosen to dress according to her own style— even if Brad would twist his face and call her housewife-ish again when he saw her. If he’d wanted her to look like something else, he should have specified that to her himself, instead of just hanging up on her.

And now she was out of the car, closing the door, and going up the walk to his house. The lights were on, so he was clearly expecting her.

She knocked once at the door, and then he opened it.

He nodded at her, not even reacting to what she wore.

He gestured to come in— Nicole’s eyes slipped over the image of the ring on his hand, and then back to his face.

“Come in,” he invited her. “I’ve set the living room up for us.”

She followed him, because when he turned away from her and started to walk away, everything in her heart leapt after him, chasing him, not wanting to be separated from him for a second.

She followed him back, through the front-room, through the dining-room, to the living-room, which was oddly in the far-back corner of the house, on the rear left-hand side.

Nicole was surprised by what she saw when she arrived there. One of those hanging bars for clothes, the kind whose bars were parallel to about head-height, the kind whose legs stood on wheels— one of those had been positioned in the middle of the room, and there were all kinds of clothes— women’s clothes, suspended from it.

Brad sat himself down on his couch, and crossed his ankles, sprawling his arms out like they were a wingspan, letting them hang down from the back of the couch, hang forward, draped down couch cushions.

“I’d like you to prove yourself again,” Brad said, leisurely. “Prove you’re the kind of woman I want you to be. The kind of woman you want to be, for my sake. Prove to me I’m not wasting my time with someone who’ll never measure up, never be what I need.”

Nicole watched him with furrowed brow.

Brad saw she wasn’t understanding yet. “Go on,” he said, flicking a hand in the direction of the wheeled-in rack. “Dress yourself like you really are that kind of woman. Show me it’s who you can be. I’d never be involved with a woman who looks the way you do right now, who looks the way you did when you came in here.”

Nicole looked at the rack again. She understood, at least, why it was here now. But why did he have so many women’s clothes? Did he have affairs like the one he had with her— with so many women— that it justified him keeping a wardrobe of clothing like this?

Nicole tried to feel jealous about this. She should care that Brad had affairs going with other women, should care that he’d had other women over, standing in her exact position, looking at the same wheeled-rack she was looking at now.

But— oh! Brad was just so sexy— and she cared for him so— she couldn’t find any jealousy within herself. She saw the ring on his hand. Brad was so sexy and she so cared for him and he should have as many women as he wanted, he should have as many women as would have him, it was better for her to be one of the many— they could give him, those faceless others, so much more than she could just give him herself.

Marriage seemed archaic to her, suddenly— just for that instant— as she looked back to his face. Why had she ever married Trent to begin with? It seemed stupid to commit to one man— seemed stupid for a man to commit to just one woman when so many more women than that could give themselves to him, could please him.

And it was stupid for a woman to commit herself to just one man— when there might be a better man— a man who would have many women besides her, a man for whom she would be just one more acquisition— that was how it should be, men harem-ing themselves, women seeking the most desirable harem—

She shook her head at herself. What was she doing? He’d asked something of her, and she was standing here, daydreaming, like she was wasting her own time only. She wasn’t. By standing here, she was wasting his time too.

She turned to the rack, and started moving hangers aside. Really, this was more like a collection of lingerie than it was a collection of anything a respectable woman would wear. It was just like underthings— not real clothes, not really.

But she should dress herself up desirable— she should be daring, look risqué just in her presentation.

She stripped herself naked, and chose a black-silk bustier; its bodice only came down to the line of her hips, but it never reached her pussy, nor did anything to cover it— it forced her breasts up obscenely, and they capped up above the neckline, crushed into place, heaving out.

She then chose a pair of black-silk stockings— but they were crotchless, and they needed garters to hold them up. She thought the look was best finished with a pair of tall heels— and then, there was no mirror in his living-room, but dressed as she was, with her hair loose and wild to her shoulders, Nicole was sure she looked like a whore.

Brad gave her an approving look. “I think you made the best possible combination out of all the items I had there. I think you’re worth continuing on with, at least for a while. Turn, and bend over, and stay down there.”

She’d done this for many other men, often in public— sometimes even attracting small groups around herself, but she’d never done it for him yet, giving him a beaver-shot. It was never that of an erotic experience for her usually— but doing it for him— she felt herself getting wet already, just at the thought.

She pivoted, so her back was to him, and then she closed her eyes— since it was for him, this was one she wanted to savor, and she wouldn’t do that eyes open.

So, eyes closed, she bent at the waist, completely bending in half, thrusting her pussy back and out. She put her arms against her legs lower down, and anchored off them for support so she could keep the stance, even while she was in her tall heels.

She could feel herself glistening between her legs— could imagine his eyes were there, and watching what she was showing him— it was making her more turned on the longer that she stood there like that, bent in half, showing her pussy.

And then she felt a hand on her pussy. Stroking— one agonizingly sensitized lip, then another— stroking her clit, smearing in her wetness. She smiled to herself. They’d never done something quite like this— but clearly, Brad had stood from the couch and come over, and while she’d been presenting herself so prettily, he’d started stroking at her with his fingers. She was glad she had closed her eyes now, she could enjoy every corner of the sensation, every bit of it—

And then he penetrated her with a finger.

She rocked her hips back, even though she was in a bit of an unsteady stance, and then he added a second one. He was jamming them in and out of her, and she was just bent there, taking it— stuffing her full of his fingers with one hand, stroking with his other hand, putting the pads of his fingers along the place where his other fingers were bulging out of her, feeling the place her burst through her, where he indented her up and out from the inside, where her flesh strained around his presence.

Then a hand was in her hair— he wasn’t feeling around where her fingers penetrated her— the hand fisted and pulled her head back at a straining angle, so she could look back up at the face that was looming over her.

It wasn’t Brad’s.

She started— felt like her whole body had frozen inside, like her blood was actively freezing. Yes, this stranger was attractive— but he was a stranger and she wasn’t enjoying his digital penetration anymore— she didn’t want him touching her, didn’t want him being intimate with her.

Was this some nightmarish home invasion? Was Brad injured, dying, was this some opportunistic thief— taking out the man to take advantage of the woman presenting herself so foolishly?

But then Brad’s face was in her view, too, beside the stranger’s face.

This wasn’t a home invasion, then.

“Nicole, this is my friend Micheal.”

Her face was flushing in embarrassment.

“Nice to meet you Micheal,” she said, her neck aching from the straining pull back that had her looking up at them both. “Nice to meet you, and could you please take your hand out of my pussy now and let go of my hair?”

Micheal made to do this, but Brad put a hand on his arm to still him. “I told Micheal what a slut you are. It made him curious to try you for himself. You do anything I say, don’t you, Nicole? You only want me to be pleased, only want me to be happy. I told him that, because it’s true, isn’t it? And when he expressed concern— saying surely, you wouldn’t accept his attention, I told him of course you would. You’d be pleasing him to please me— because you’re mine to give away, and it pleases me when you’re given. That’s so true, isn’t it?”

Nicole flushed all over again. How could she deny it? It was so true— she constantly exposed herself to strangers, like a true slut, just because Brad called her up and asked her too. He was asking her to do this, take this now. How could she deny him? How could she refuse?

“It’s true,” she said, cheeks burning hotter than ever.

“Good slut,” Brad smiled, and that was the thing that sparked Nicole’s insides up in pleasure. Brad’s praised was a reward— the reward reinforce her— if she could have rewards like this, it was almost worth taking anything in exchange to get to them.

“You can let go of her hair now, Micheal. Do whatever you like with her.”

Her head flopped back forwards, so she was no longer straining at an unusual angle. Micheal seemed to just want to keep fingering her— squirming his fingers around inside with one hand, squirming the fingers of his other hand around her clit, again and again. Her body was starting to respond to it, the arousal dripping through her, and out of her, down onto Micheal’s fingers, onto Micheal’s hand— but the flush of humiliation was present through all of it.

Suddenly she felt a sharp pinching on her nipple. “Ugh-uhhhh,” she groaned, at the unexpected pressure— there were two hands at her crotch still, the fingers of one in her pussy, the fingers of the other on her clit, so this was not Micheal’s hand— Brad had reached under her chest to press her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

In just that one pinch, for Nicole, there was so much eroticism. The pleasure that happened between her legs was a shameful pleasure, something she couldn’t entirely allow herself to enjoy, but the feeling in her breast— Brad had caused it directly, but he was giving it to her as a reward— in that action, showing her how much he liked to see her submit, to take whatever was given to her.

The pleasure in her breasts— he was pinching both of her nipples now, fumbling fingers over them, pulling at them, tweaking them— the pleasure in both of her breasts had her moaning wantonly and pumping her hips back onto the hand that was penetrating her pussy. It was confusing her brain. The pleasure in her breasts was good but the pleasure in her pussy was bad? That was how she’d been thinking of it before, but now it was getting hard to keep the two pleasures separate from themselves. It just seemed like one entire pleasure— and all of it was good— all of it had her moaning like she was a fire-hot bitch electric with arousal, not caring who touched her, not caring who fucked her— just wanting to take anything at all, anything at all because Brad wanted her to be like that— was happy when she was like that—

Her orgasm exploded and they never stopped working her, never stopped putting her through it. There was so much pleasure and she couldn’t keep herself separate from it anymore, it was filling her up, it was consuming her— Brad wanted her to have it, wanted her to take it from anyone who wanted to give it to her— and she was such a slut, she was such a wanton slut she just wanted to be used, used by anyone, used for anything— used in as many ways as she could be.

At last, the hands at her pussy stopped. Brad put his hands on her arms, indicating that she could raise herself up. Her legs were a bit tired from standing so long in heels. When she turned around, she saw Michael was gone.

“You did well,” Brad said, as he looked her over. “Now I want you to go back to the rack— take all the bustiers from it with you, and go home. Those will be the only shirts you wear from now on. And maybe you can find the time to go by yourself some tiny miniskirts— these should be the kind of outfits you wear now.”

Nicole accepted this immediately. Yes, these should be the kind of outfits she wore now— only lingerie as tops, lingerie that held itself up through boning and structure, which had no sleeves or straps— and tiny miniskirts with nothing underneath, no underwear— tall heels— sometimes stockings and sometimes nothing—

She moved to the rack, taking off of it every hanger which suspended a bustier— when she had taken them all, she left without looking back at Brad. He had not told her to linger— and she knew for a fact her preferred it when she cleared out quickly and efficiently. She piled her new wardrobe of tops onto her backseat, and drove home.

She was seeing less and less of Trent these days, but he was so busy at work he hardly noticed. She was also coming home at later and later hours, more and more frequently finding that Trent was already asleep. She was grateful for it tonight, as it made it easier to sneak all her new tops into the house, and up into the closet with the rest of her clothes.

The next day, when she woke up, Trent was already gone. She made it her first order of the day to go out miniskirt shopping. She bought in all patterns, and all colors— but all of them were scandalously short. When she stood with her arms at her sides, hands resting where they naturally came to, against the sides of her leg, no miniskirt was longer than halfway down her thumb. Some didn’t even reach the joint of her thumb, and others failed to reach the line of her wrist. It would be no work at all to flash people in these— and paired with wearing lingerie for shirts, everyone would be able to look at her and see she was a slut.

The next few days, she didn’t see Trent either, which was just as well, because each morning she woke up and put on a bustier and a mini-skirt. The Friday of that week, she woke up, and put on an indigo bustier and a silver miniskirt, which went with a pair of tall, tall red heels. It made her feel slutty even just when she was waking around her own house— and she pulled her hair back in a high ponytail. It made her feel even more like the good-time-haver she was rapidly becoming.

The doorbell rang, which was quite the surprise for her. But she had better answer it— and it was an added benefit that whoever came to her door would see her sluttiness about her; with the bodice of the bustier clinging to her, with her breasts pushed up and put on such display.

When she opened the door, she found a strange man there she didn’t know— it wasn’t even Micheal, it wasn’t anyone she’d ever seen before.

“You’re Nicole, aren’t you?” He asked.

Stunned, she only nodded.

The man gave her a leering grin. “And you’re a very slutty slut, aren’t you?”

She felt her cheeks burn.

He looked down at her body; the indigo bustier, the silver miniskirt (more accurately called perhaps, a mini miniskirt), the red heels.

“I shouldn’t even have bothered to ask. Dressed like that, is there anything else you could be?”

“You’re— I’ve never seen you before, what—?”

The man stepped in, moving her back from the doorway with a hand to her shoulder. “I’m a friend of Brad’s. He gave me your address. Wouldn’t you just like to step aside, lean into the wall, and let me ruck your skirt up?”

Brad’s— he was giving out her address to friends now, and telling them to call on her! But she was still confused by the pleasure from before. She’d never quite been able to untangle the two pleasures again— the welcomed pleasure of Brad’s reward as opposed to the tolerated, dreaded pleasure of strangers using her. They seemed to have merged together that night that Brad had played her breasts as Micheal had played her pussy— now she was flooding, feeling it streak down her thighs, as if Brad was here, as if he had promised her some reward, or told her she’d already received it.

“I’m a very slutty slut,” she breathed, and she stepped aside from the stranger to the wall just past the door; the wallspace there was clear; she pressed her body against it, breasts into it, cheek against it, tilting her hips back.

The man closed the front-door, and then she heard the sound of him unzipping himself, felt his presence behind her— felt his hands at her skirt, lifting what little was there up— and she knew he could see how she was already streaking herself in desire, proving the statement correct.

She felt his cock brushing against her hole, her slut’s hole, she thought now— ravenous, desperate for pleasure from anyone, desperate to be used for anything and there was so much pleasure in her body. She was thinking of Brad— of how much he wanted her to be the kind of whore she was behaving like. Though, as the stranger behind her drove in right to his root, crushing her against the wall and almost pinning her there with the force of his cock— she thought. If she was behaving like something— if she so felt all the associated emotions that went with the mimed experience— was there any distinction between what she was and what she did?

She was so fully acting like a whorish slut— didn’t that just make her one? In the haze of pleasure, the idea was confusing her, and concepts were merging. Then she wasn’t thinking of Brad at all— only thinking of how she deserved to be used, brutally so.

She was mostly collapsed into the wall, barely able to move at all, the stranger was pressing so fully against her, but the little leverage she had, she used to tilt her hips back, then forward, then back again— a few more strokes from him, and her eyes were crossing as they stared with the turn of her toward the front-door beside them— she made choked sounds of pleasure— he was hitting into her so deep, just going and going and going, and it seemed he would never stop— but she didn’t want him to.

His fucking silenced all the thoughts in her head, made it quiet— and his fucking made her whole body feel so good— so warm and lovely with pleasure— and every time she managed to tilt her pelvis just as he drove in, he got even deeper— her eyes were crossing as she looked aside— her mind became more distant from her— and they were still fucking in a frenzy, his cock slamming into her, slapping against her, and her body just taking it— every brush of contact so good— every time he filled her so good—

It happened like it had happened the other night. Once her orgasm started it didn’t stop— it just leveled off sometimes, and then other times spike up again. She closed her eyes into the sensation, because it was too overwhelming— and the man drove into her, and pulled back out, drove in, which slammed her up into the wall, pulled out, which eased her off it slightly. She felt her breasts crushing against it— they easing back— crushing against it— easing back— she was being squished, then released, and the penetration was deep, and then it was shallow, and her orgasm just didn’t stop— she moaned, fully the wanton slut now— the distinction was gone in her mind, she didn’t behave like one, she was one.

And she didn’t take two kinds of pleasure, it was all just one kind of pleasure, the pleasure of being a slut, getting fucked by anyone, getting fucked all the time.

At last, the man shot into her— and almost as soon as he was done, she heard him do up his pants— then he stepped around, and because of the direction her head was facing, she saw as he opened the door, and went out it.

He’d come in, fucked her, and left— all without ever telling her his name. She’d been fucked like a nameless man, and she’d just stood there and taken it like the slut that she was.

She was glad, though, that she was on the pill— she was too slutty to ever ask a man to stop and put on a condom, too slutty to ask a man to pull out— so it was good that she was protected from pregnancy another way. She had a feeling she would only be taking more semen up her pussy from this moment forward.

A few days later, when she went to take the trash out, this time wearing a white bustier that had open sides only held together by crisscross ties, and a white miniskirt, she noticed a car parked on the street.

When she was at the curb, the car rolled forward slightly; and when she looked in through the passenger side window, she saw that there was another stranger in there she didn’t know at all.

He rolled the passenger window down.

“I’m Brad’s friend,” he said, simply, and she forgot what she was doing, forgot she still needed to go back inside— she just opened the passenger door and got in.

He drove them across town, to his apartment building. The whole way there, he drove one-handed, his other hand beneath her skirt, playing with her pussy and working her up. By the time they got to his building, she was panting like an ovulating bitch hoping for impregnation, even though she’d taken her pill that morning, the same as ever.

She thought of how dangerous it all was, as she followed the man up to his apartment— as she got down onto his apartment floor, lying on her back and taking his cock all the way in. She knew nothing about these men, not even their names— they only claimed to be Brad’s friends— but if rumors were spreading beyond Brad’s social circle now, if the men who’d already fucked her had told the people they knew, and those people told the people they knew— then strangers who were even strangers to Brad might be showing up to fuck her, and she wouldn’t even be aware.

Anyone who had the magic key— who just knew to say they were a “friend of Brad’s” could get balls-deep in her, get her to go anywhere with them, do anything. People who might mean her harm could get her into compromising positions, finding her through gossip, never having been vetted by Brad first. That could happen to her, she could be in danger right now— this could be a person who didn’t really know Brad, any man that came after him might also be a stranger that didn’t know Brad— and she couldn’t even check with him after the fact, because she had no names to tell him.

That might all be true, and she’d take her fuckings just the same. Knowing how endangered she might be, how helplessly— it only made her moan in hopeless arousal, and at the thought of it, she was set off into another orgasm, and then coming and coming on the man as he fucked her into the floor. She humped sleepily, so overcome with pleasure she was getting a little too tired to move her body— humped sleepily, humped sleepily— smiling dreamily, thinking happily that the man above her, fucking her from behind like the man a few days ago— thinking he seemed to be enjoying himself so much in her body.

He started coming before very long— and that gave her a little more energy to fuck him back, spur him on. The dreamy smile stayed on her face all the time, though— and when he was finally done, he pulled out, and left her— presumably in the direction of his bedroom, he looked tired himself.

There was no invitation for her to go with him; and it was an act of trust or carelessness to leave her unattended in his apartment.

But she was just a slut— all she cared about was fucking— she had no designs more nefarious than simply taking her fucking and leaving for home. She exited his apartment and hailed a cab on the street outside; then she had to tell the cab-driver to wait outside her house while she ran in to get money. She’d gone with the man before without taking anything with her— not phone, not wallet, not anything. Irresponsible, endangering, and yet so, so thrilling.

The time had come to go out for groceries the next day. She wore a gold bustier that dipped low at the cleavage even by bustier standards— and a miniskirt so short it was shy of her entire hand when she stood with her arms at her side.

In the canned goods aisle, as she did frequently need to restock the pantry with said canned goods, she noticed a man looking at her. And followed the impulse that arose in her immediately.

She set her basket on the floor, and walked over to him.

“Are you a friend of Brad’s?” she asked. Then she marveled at her own action— this time, she was complicit— this might truly be a stranger to Brad— who might do her harm, take advantage— she’d handed her magic key away herself— there was a good chance this was only a stranger with no link to either her or to Brad, but if he said yes she would fuck him just because he’d said that. Because she no longer had any ability to stop herself from wanting to.

The man nodded eagerly, and it was impossible to tell if he was lying or not.

“Yes,” he told her. “Yes, I’m a friend of Brad’s.”

She took him by the hand, in search of the storage area; they venture behind the ‘Employees Only’ doors— but there wasn’t a sign of any other soul around.

All the same, she took him back into a dark corner, and got down on her knees, to take him out of his pants.

She was quick to wrap her lips around him and start sucking him. Nothing was touching her, giving her any physical attention, but it felt so good to be slutty like this she was creaming herself so much she thought she might be coming.

She sucked him, and reveled in it— made she would stop more men, stop men anywhere she went, and just ask them if they were Brad’s friend; just to fuck more, just to get used more.

She hollowed her cheeks then filled them back out. The pleasure was enough in itself. But all the same, it would be nice if Brad called soon. She could not wait to tell him that she had done this.